Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

“Here’s one, and here’s another. These two are possible. This one’s also

possible, but I don’t think so. I’ll put money down on this one . . . and this

one for starters.” His fingers tapped on seemingly random lines of dots.

“Wally?”

Chambers turned to the other table and (lipped (he marked up sols lo Ihc

proper time settings. “Jonesy, you fuckin’ witch!” he hieallu-d. ll had taken

a team of skilled technicians-experts all-over two hours lo do what Jones

had accomplished in a few minutes before their again-incredulous eyes.

The civilian contractor pulled a can of Coke from the nearby cooler and

popped it open. “Gentlemen,” he asked, “who’s the all-time champ?”

That was only part of it, of course. The printouts merely gave bearing to a

suspected noise source, but there were several of the bottom-sited SOSUS

arrays, and triangulation had already been accomplished, nailing the datum

points down to radii of ten to fifteen nautical miles. Even with Jones’s im-

provements in the system, that still left a lot of ocean to search.

The phone rang. It was Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet. Mancuso took

the call and made his recommendations for vectoring Charlotte and Ashe-

ville onto the suspected contacts. Jones observed the exchange and nodded

approval.

“See what I mean, Skipper? You always did know how to listen.”

Murray had been out discussing a few budgetary matters with the Assistant-

Director-in-Charge of the Washington Field Office, therefore missing the

phone call. The top-secret dispatch from the White House was tucked away

in secure files, and then his secretary had been called out to bring a sick child

home from school. As a result, the handwritten message from Ryan had been

% unconscionably late in coming to his attention.

“The Norton girl,” he said, walking into Director Shaw’s office.

“Bad?”

“Dead,” Murray said, handing the paper over. Shaw scanned it quickly.

“Shit,” the FBI Director whispered. “Did she have a prior history of

drug use?”

“Not that I recall.”

‘ ‘Word from Tokyo?”

“I haven’t checked in with the Leg-At yet. Bad timing for that, Bill.”

Shaw nodded, and the thought in his mind was transparent. Ask any FBI

agent for the case he bragged about, and it is always kidnapping. It was re-

ally how the Bureau had made its name back in the 19305. The Lindbergh

Law had empowered the FBI to assist any local police force as soon as the

possibility existed that the victim could have been taken across a state line.

With the mere possibility-the victims were rarely actually transported so

far-the whole weight and power of America’s premier law-enforcement

agency descended on the case like a pack of especially hungry wolves. The

real mission was always the same: to get the victim back alive, and there the

results were excellent. The secondary objective was to apprehend, charge,

and try the subjects in question, and there the record, statistically speaking,

was better still. They didn’t know yet if Kimberly Norton had been a kidnap

victim. They did know that she would he coming home dead. That single

fact, for any FBI agent, was a professional failure.

“Her father’s a cop.”

“I remember, Dan.”

“I want to go out there and talk it over with O’Keefe.” Part of it was

because Captain Norton deserved to hear it from other cops, not through the

media. Part of it was because the cops on the case had to do it, to admit their

failure to him. And part of it would be for Murray to take a look at the case

file himself, to be sure for himself that all that might have been done, had

been done.

‘ ‘I can probably spare you for a day or two,” Shaw replied.’ ‘The Linders

case is going to wait until the President gets back anyway. Okay, get

packed.”

“This is better than the Concorde!” Cathy gushed at the Air Force corporal

who served dinner. Her husband almost laughed. It wasn’t often that Caro-

line Ryan’s eyes went quite so wide, but then he was long accustomed to this

sort of service, and the food was certainly better than she customarily ate in

the Hopkins physicians’ dining room. And there the plates didn’t have gold

trim, one of the reasons that Air Force One had so much pilferage.

“Wine for madam?” Ryan lifted the bottle of Russian River chardonnay

and poured as his plate came down.

“We don’t drink wine on the chicken farm, you see,” she told the corpo-

ral with a small measure of embarrassment.

“Everybody’s this way the first time, Dr. Ryan. If you need anything,

please buzz me.” She headed back to the galley.

“See, Cathy, I told you, stick with me.”

“I wondered how you got used to flying,” she noted, tasting the broccoli.

“Fresh.”

“The flight crew’s pretty good, too.” He gestured to the wineglasses. Not

a ripple,

“The pay isn’t all that great,” Arnie Van Damm said from the other side

of the compartment, “but the perks ain’t too bad.”

“The blackened redfish isn’t bad at all.”

“Our chef stole the recipe from the Jockey Club. Best Cajun redfish in

town,” van Damm explained. ‘ ‘I think he had to trade his potato soup for it.

Fair deal,” Arnie judged.

“He gets the crust just right, doesn’t he?”

One of Washington’s few really excellent restaurants, the Jockey Club

was located in the basement of the Ritz Carlton Hotel on Massachusetts Av-

enue. A quiet, dimly lit establishment, it had for many years been a place for

“power” meals of one sort or another.

All the food here is good, Libby Holtzman thought, especially when

someone else paid for it. The previous hour had handled all manner of small

talk, the usual exchange of information and gossip that was even more im-

portant in Washington than most American cities. That was over now. The

wine was served, the salad plates gone, and the main course on the table.

“So, Roy, what’s the big item?”

“Ed Realty.” Newton looked up to watch her eyes.

“Don’t tell me, his wife is finally going to leave the rat?”

“He’s probably going to be the one leaving, as a matter of fact.”

“Who’s the unlucky bimbo?” Mrs. Holtzman asked with a wry smile.

“Not what you think, Libby. Ed’s going away.” You always wanted to

make them wait for it.

“Roy, it’s eight-thirty, okay?” Libby observed, making her position

clear.

‘ ‘The FBI has a case running on Kealty. Rape. More than one, in fact. One

of the victims killed herself.”

“Lisa Beringer?” The reason for her suicide had never been adequately

explained.

“She left a letter behind. The FBI has it now. They also have several other

women who are willing to testify.”

“Wow,” Libby Holtzman allowed herself to say. She set her fork down.

“How solid is this?”

“The man running the case is Dan Murray, Shaw’s personal attack dog.”

“I know Dan. I also know he won’t talk about this.” You rarely got an

FBI agent to discuss evidentiary matters in a criminal case, certainly not

before it was presented. That sort of leak almost always came from an attor-

ney or court clerk. “He doesn’t just do things by the book-he wrote the

book.” It was literally true. Murray had helped draft many of the Bureau’s

official procedures.

“He might, this one time.”

“Why, Roy?”

“Because Durling is holding things up. He thinks he needs Kealty for his

clout on the Hill. You notice that Eddie-boy has been in the White House a

lot lately? Durling spilled it all to him so that he can firm up his defense. At

least,” Newton said to cover himself, “that’s what people are telling me. It

does seem a little out of character, doesn’t it?”

“Obstruction of justice?”

“That’s the legal term, Libby. Technically speaking, well, I’m not quite

sure it meets the legal test.” Now the hook was well in the water, and the

bait worm was wiggling very nicely.

“What if he was just holding it off to keep it from competing with the

trade bill?” The fish was giving it a look, but wondering about the shiny,

barbed thing behind the worm. . . .

“This one goes back further than that, Libby. They’ve been sitting on it

for quite a while, that’s what I hear. It does make a great excuse, though,

doesn’t it?” It was a very enticing worm, though.

“If you think politics takes precedence over a sexual-assault case. How

solid is the case?”

“If it goes in front of a jury, Ed Kealty is going to spend time in a federal

penitentiary.”

“That solid?” My, what a juicy fat worm it was.

“Like you said, Murray’s a good cop.”

“Who’s the U.S. Attorney on the case?”

“Anne Cooper. She’s been full-time on this for weeks.” One hell of a

good worm, in fact. That barbed, shiny thing wasn’t all that dangerous, was

it?

Newton took an envelope from his pocket and set it on the tablecloth.